Stream of Unconsciousness (or, I'm so fucked up right now!)

Irish morn awakes the curtain moves I peer out to moist ground below the wetness brings me to the bath where I lather and surround my flesh with Irish Springs the bubbles shaped like potatoes which grow steadily and rest like small children against the brown crumbling soil. Papa hits me the potatoes sting against my bare back. He pelts me with the sack. The sting of Love echoes through my corporal being, potatoes dancing upon the oil like when Papa drinks Guinness and leaps on the table his Irish coffee falls. The stench of his drunkenness surrounds me like a cloud enveloping my hair and eyes in a haze of fermentation. Sarah never drank her Ma would say if she drank her legs would open and spit out babies, her Ma slaps Sarah with her crucifix. Yes, she says as the silver form strikes her cheek yes yes, more, Sunday mass, yes, Father O'Riley, I confess I will YES!